


Harvest Moon

by SEHale



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Falcon and the Winter Soldier (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Pining, Post-Endgame, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 17:41:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30109653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SEHale/pseuds/SEHale
Summary: After everything settles, Sam returns to see his sister again, and brings along a friend. A small vignette of Sam and Bucky away from their ordinary lives, and trying to move on from what's happened to them.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson
Comments: 7
Kudos: 106





	Harvest Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Just messing around with an idea that came into my head as I listened to "Harvest Moon," by Neil Young. Strongly recommend listening to that song as you read this.

He felt so tired, his arms heavy like lead and gravity clung to him as a second skin. It wasn’t just spending the day in the sun, helping his sister on the docks bring in the lobsters. It wasn’t just the weight of Bucky’s stare, watching him and Sarah laugh and tease and be siblings again. It was years of this life clinging to him, the hands of everyone he knew and loved and gone pulling him down and down and down.

Sam grabbed the cold beer from the table, watching absently as the condensation made a mark on the wood he knew his sister would yell at him about, if she was paying attention. She had grown so much, so much like their mother, Sam felt almost like a stranger when they finally saw one another again. But then Sarah’s eyes went wide, and wet, and she hugged him so tightly and hit the back of his head that Sam felt fifteen again, and like he was messing with her hair before school and being scolded by his mother. If anyone saw Sam’s eyes tighten and water, they said nothing.

The sky was golden, going grey with clouds and the sunset, and Sam took his beer onto the porch, where he could see them. They were dancing slowly, basically rocking back and forth, their feet barely leaving the ground as they swayed. She looked beautiful, and happy. Sam was glad, Sarah deserved this, deserved a life free from complications and grief. Sam was happy to carry that for them both.

Sarah’s husband was a hulking great man, bigger than Sam in everyway, but as gentle as a bumblebee. He held Sarah like she was a butterfly in the wild, and watched her every move, half amused and half terrified. Like if he looked away, she’d disappear. Sam guessed that was the survival mechanism for a lot of people, these days. Matthew left one morning to get milk and eggs for breakfast, and came home to see his world had slipped away. Sam didn’t know Matthew that well before, and hasn’t made much effort since they married, but he knows the look of a man in love. A man haunted by a love that was left in the past.

He watched, as they swept the dried grass in the front garden with their feet, as the music crooned out of an old record player. Sam knew the song well. It was their parent’s most played, his mother would listen to it every Sunday and dance with herself as she washed dishes after breakfast, her apron spotted with water as their father would sweep her in for a big kiss, her surprised laughter always cutting them off despite him doing it every time. Sam felt a tug in his chest, and shook it off. It was another pair of hands pulling him down.

The beer was cold and felt good in his hands, his stomach. He sat on the front porch and watched for a long moment, and eventually felt someone behind him. Sam waited, let the ghost come to him.

It didn’t take long before he heard the third wood plank groan under years of struggle on their parent’s porch, and Bucky leaned against the front deck awning beside him. Sam still watched Sarah, but could feel Bucky sneak glances at him, clearly wanting to talk about something. Sam took a long pull from his beer, and waited him out.

“I like this song.” It wasn’t what Sam expected, but then again, anything Bucky says these days is hardly something he can predict. Only that afternoon Bucky told Sam he only liked cereal with a lot of added sugar in it and thinks he worked with Puerto Rican nationalists in the 1950s to assassinate Congressmen in the House of Representatives. It’s really hit or miss.

“Hmm? You hear it before?” Sam asks, but Bucky shakes his head. He’s looking at Sarah and Matthew too, and Sam sees the sigh come out of him more than hears it. Sam glances his way, and away again just as quickly.

“It’s a nice song.” And they could leave it there. Sam could take another sip of his beer, nod his head, and say nothing else. But Bucky tried. And that makes Sam try too.

“It was our parents’ favorite.” He hears more than sees Bucky turn to look at him, his jacket shifting as his head turns. Sam’s still looking at Sarah and Matthew. “My dad, he took my mom dancing a lot, and when they heard this song for the first time, that was it. They listened to it on repeat apparently; me and Sarah growing up heard it all the time. It was sweet. They were real sweet together.” He can feel Bucky now, staring at him, and if Sam were braver he’d turn and look back too, not just sneak the glances he normally does. “It is a nice song.”

Sam feels his heart quicken, feels panic and nausea and anxiety fill him for a moment before it clears, his eyes closing when he feels Bucky sit down and place a firm hand on his knee. It’s his right hand, and it’s warm and soft against him. Bucky’s turned to him entirely now, facing Sam and ducking his head to try and look at him. Sam finally looks at him, and sees Bucky, so brave, wade through the sea of hands pulling him down alongside him. But Bucky gets it, Bucky knows, he has a world of scars and hands dragging against him, but he keeps going.

Sam really wonders why Bucky didn’t go to Steve that day, why he just stared at Sam and told him to go, but Sam knows they’re not ready to talk about it. It’s too raw, too open, too fragile to mention Steve between them. Sam wonders instead.

“Do you dance to it?” It’s another comment, so Bucky, so unpredictable, that Sam understands why Steve was friends with him all those years back. Bucky Barnes says all the right things without realizing it. The Winter Soldier was never him.

Sam bites out a laugh, and Bucky grins, quick. “No, God no, slow dancing? Got two left feet for that.” Sam doesn’t know why he answered so honestly. Normally, he’d brag about how he’s a phenomenal dancer in the club, could dance better than Steve or Nat, but then he looks at Bucky and knows that’s not what he should say, what he wants to say.

“Slow dancing is all I know, or knew. I liked it though. Dancing. It was fun, sweet.” Bucky has a small quirk in his lips, just the right side, up a little and so sweet, so soft, that Sam’s heart quickens for a different reason. He feels Bucky rub a thumb along the outside of his knee, and Sam isn’t sure if it’s on purpose or not, if maybe Bucky’s lost in a memory with someone else. He gets the feeling Bucky used to be an affectionate guy, free with his touch to those he wanted in his space, and Sam stops the train of thought there before it derails.

“I’m sure Sarah wouldn’t mind,” Sam says, gesturing to the couple in their own small world. Bucky follows his gaze, and raises his eyebrow. Sam only that afternoon shoved a finger at Bucky’s face and told him to never think of his sister in any type of way. “Matthew’s a good dancer, he’d lead you nicely, take good care of you.” Bucky snorts, dips his head, and moves his hand away. Sam misses it immediately, and takes a swig of his beer to hid the acidic taste in his mouth.

“They look busy. You don’t,” Bucky offers, and Sam immediately looks at him, but there’s nothing malicious or cruel in his words. It’s simple, his head is tilted like he’s considering it still, just thinking about Sam and a song and a dance, as if that’s the world they live in. Not a world of monsters and death and time travel and pain. Sam wants to let himself slip and dream about another world, another place, but he refuses. He has a responsibility beyond his own little desires, a space on this earth that needs him to be more than human, more than flesh and blood. A symbol. The price of freedom is high.

“Maybe another time, Bucky.” Sam can’t let himself slip. He can’t let himself want. Even if Bucky’s trying, Sam can’t meet him every time. Not when Sam’s thinking of things in a different direction than Bucky means.

“Me and Steve did it all the time, dance together. I had to practice, and he was so small and dainty back then. He hated it. In return I’d help him throw a punch.” They locked eyes again, and Sam swallowed audibly. Mentioning Steve so casually, damn was Bucky really trying. Sam downed the rest of the beer, set it down.

“I’m not as dainty,” Sam said, just to say something, to take his mind away from where it wants to go, picture himself swaying with Bucky in the grass as the sunsets, the song playing in the background as he rests his head so gently on Bucky’s shoulder, feel him so close.

“Any one can sway, Sam.” Bucky’s smile from earlier is gone, and he stands up, arm held out, and Sam knows he has no choice. He sighs, acting put upon to cover his nerves, and rests his hand in Bucky’s. Of course, it’s skin to skin, and Bucky leads them out a few steps ahead of the porch steps. Bucky’s other arm snakes across Sam’s middle, and Sam raises an eyebrow.

“I never said you got to lead.”

“You’ve got two left feet, you just said.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve.”

“I can’t believe this is the argument we’re having.”

“I’m just saying, very presumptuous. Comes across as arrogant too.”

“Do you want to dance or not? Shut up then.”

Sam bites back a smile, not wanting to give Bucky the satisfaction as he huffs, frustrated. Bucky wraps an arm around Sam’s waist, a little higher, and Sam lets his rest atop, just below Bucky’s shoulder and wrapped around his bicep. Their other hands remained together. Sam felt Bucky’s breath on his cheek.

They didn’t notice Sarah and Matthew leave them alone.

The song plays, and Sam feels Bucky tighten his grip for a moment. Sam sighs, knocks his forehead onto Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky makes a sound, as if asking what’s wrong. And Sam doesn’t know where to start.

It’s nearing the end of the song, they barely got the chance to dance, but Bucky doesn’t show signs of stopping. They keep going as the last note hits, and Bucky looks into his eyes. Sam has no idea what he sees, but he smiles weakly, and huffs a laugh.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.” Soft. Gentle. And because he asked –

“I just wonder what it would be like, you know? To grow old and happy.”

And it’s said with such sad, resigned hopelessness that Bucky can tell immediately what Sam meant. That Sam doesn’t think he’ll grow old, or be happy, and that he won’t have what Sarah and Matthew have, or his parents. He’ll always be watching it happen. Bucky knows, because Bucky’s the same. Bucky’s had the same thought loop around his head since they came back. Since they saw Steve on that bench. Maybe less, since he followed Sam wherever he went. Maybe less, since they danced in the dying light on a Tuesday afternoon in Sam’s childhood home.

“Sounds nice.”

“It does.”

They keep sweeping their feet on that dried grass.


End file.
